Marble Spine
by UnderdogHeart
Summary: "In the dark, bruises are harder to see. But in this dark, you are stripped down to your bones and all that will remain is you." The trails and tribulations of an infamous District Two victor, Lyme Achilles. Reaching within the depths from her games to to thin-fingered grasp of her weighted presence in the rebellion.
1. Chapter 1

The calloused fingers run over the delicate, sheer material of the dress. The concept is foreign to the young woman and the light but muted pinks and purples, the embroidered gold flowers are alien. Brows would knit together in a furrow, a vague attempt for her higher self to recognize what has been laid out for her. She is still clad in a soft towel from her bath, scrubbed raw and clean from the dirt that marked her skin and the grime underneath her nails. Her mother causes no disruption of startling, spilling emotions. A woman of similar demeanor; somewhat brash and unemotional, for when Lyme announced her intent to volunteer this year, Dyta merely nodded and dismissed the topic while sipping carefully from her glass. But it is not until her eldest daughter pulls the sheer fabric dress to her stature that she softens. The jaw taught to grow taunt and tight at emotion lowers and parts from her upper lip, hanging slightly agape to allow a sigh to dismiss itself from her lungs. But what is emitted from her voice box is expected. "You'll look ridiculous." She tugs at the arm of the blonde eighteen year old. Studies the well muscled but lean bicep, shoulders, and then she tugs the dress away with a particular carelessness. "It's not a reaping dress, anyways."

The eighteen year old is well acquainted and even comfortable with her mother's effortless, natural snap; enough so that she does not feel the need to crumble to her knees like a fool to it as her sister does. What is hidden underneath each snide comment is an intelligent observation. This woman is keen enough to realize how ruined the dress will look on her daughter without having to see it on. Lyme does not respond, pulling the last, soft sponge from her hair with the last golden curl falls gently into place.

Even now while she stands, immaculate and presented in front of the full length mirror there is something feral about her presence. A hard reality which causes her to yank the dress from her mother's light grip and slide the carefully crafted shoulders of the garment from the slim iron hanger, Dyta acknowledges that her presence is no longer welcomed and takes her leave. If Lyme is the little sheep that couldn't, a tear will not be shed, and just as her mother, Lyme will not plead for last goodbyes. She had not been raised for the slaughter, but raised to slaughter; for she is the shepherd, and they, the sheep.

She changes, presents herself just as she had been taught how to. Even feminine, there is no fragility about the female. She is steadfast and prepared for what is to come, not unlike the sea or something as equally as impressive.


	2. The Deceiver

The three younger Achilles siblings parade proudly behind the stature of their eldest sister. Lykos is certain that she will rise from the arena a goddess of battle. Bloodied and a new coarseness to her being. The snide smirk he is infamous for creates of a presence on his mouth, tugging at one corner and giving him a well earned crookedness. He is only a single year younger than she, and his birth will brand him with a dangerous eighteen years in the next following month. When the green of the land still remains as a refreshing vision, not a mitigated sight where people will be ready for change when the heat settles humid and hanging; leaving mouths parched and eyes narrowed.

The tiny machine pinches the pad of her forefinger and draws blood. The well-fed woman at the table presses her finger onto the paper where the bright red liquid stains the off-white paper and the same machine is turned so this woman can focus on the writing that appears. Identifying the lithe figure before her as Lyme Achilles; with a simple wave of the hand she is dismissed and Lyme finds herself among many of her same aged peers from the academy. Despite the elegant dress she wears, her image is ruined quickly when her forearms cross over her ribs defensively, naturally, just as they always do.

The escort buzzes with life, greeting each and every District Two citizen by the mass. "Welcome!" She pipes, her dyed golden hair and peculiar tattoos on her skin that suggest a silver ink prove how pleased she is to be the representative escort for not only a career district, but District two. Her smile is wide, a white so bright it is almost shocking. No time is wasted in her introduction, the Capitol propaganda video Lyme had seen in the past three years had not been updated, but would run its course within the years to come and change into something these ignorant sycophants thought to be titillating and hoped to bring sense and justification about the games for those in the districts who suffered through them. There is a need within her to press confrontation, but the woman purses her lips together tightly to keep the words from spilling out. This will keep her hide upon her bones, to keep her body strong and her mind soft.

The tattooed hand reaches into the oversized bowl, and diligently, before a name of any unfortunate is called her voice erupts through the quiet, eager tension of those awaiting. She had been delayed in though, surprised she had still been the first to speak. "I volunteer as tribute." Her right hand raises in uniform fashion and without hesitation, happily, as if this is not a common fashion in their home, the escort waves her hand. "Well then!" She beams again, oozing excitement. "Come on up!" While she is capable of absorbing that this is indeed, a game, she cannot help but feel the surreal air that hangs heavily over the crowd. Despite years of tradition, even now, the blood thirst that bubbles in the very being of each and every one of them seems strange and unfamiliar. Like dusk after the storm, before the dark. When she is steady on the erected stage, she notices she is significantly taller than the surgically altered woman to her left who is readying the microphone for her to speak in. "And what's your name?" She asks politely, offering the amplifying thing to Lyme. "Lyme Achilles," she says not dejectedly, but bored because she knows what she had done long before she had let the words come forth from her mouth. A boy her age volunteers as well, a not so surprisingly tall blond male accompanies her on stage whose name has already vacated her mind.

They shake hands, and the rivalry has already begun between them. Despite a long tradition of allying, she is the deceiver...

A man in white reaches for the small of her back to thrust her forward with gentle concern. When she turns to catch a glimpse of her obvious offender, the stiffened muscles neutralize. No longer willing to shrug off the peacekeeper; a man who once worked closely with her father when he was a young man. A man, who much like her father, often hushed her childhood ramblings of rebellion and anarchy. Excused them for sophomoric babble and in private, warned her of the consequences. He is named Nero, far too much of a gentle soul to dull his brain into giving into the tyrannical reign of the Capitol. But he did not chew at the bit like she had. He accepted and remained, he had been constant and for that, she had been thankful.

What flows through her mind is only remotely familiar. Something she had been told by many of the mentors back at the academy. A very basic run down of what she will be lead into. Processed like meat into the slaughter house. Lyme is to wait in a room, bid her family and other such visitors quick goodbyes before she and her district mate are sent off into a car from the Capitol, driven to the train and loaded like cargo where there will a be a short ride into the Capitol. And to think they had actually taken classes on this in the academy, to explain how product meat is prepared for the food chain.  
If she's not eaten, she'll be sold; so to speak.

Eilithya is her youngest sister. A meek girl of fifteen who has found her skills more appropriate for crafting than destroying; while she is handy with the making of weaponry, she is as hopeless as an infant when it comes to handling them for the sake of her survival. Many times she had watched her curly haired sister fail in friendly combat with mentors and students alike. It was a well known, hushed factor that should the young girl be chosen or choose to volunteer when she is of a ripe eighteen, she would falter and succumb to circumstance rather than overcome it. It is her sin to be gentle and kind. Eilithya is too ethereal, holds a different softness about her than Lyme. Who prefers to remain malleable than to crack and then crumble under the right pressures.

Nikon and Lykos are twins, and almost impossible to tell the difference between if not for Lykos jagged scar over his left eyebrow from rough play. Her family is rushed through the door with a three minute entitlement to say their goodbyes. "Best of luck…" he has drifted, unable to make himself completely present. Nikon was a mixture of his siblings. A meek jester with an incredibly forceful side to him when provoked, much like a rattle snake. Her sister brushes past them with impressive immediacy to cling to the waist of Lyme, holding her there and hoping to anchor her in this room forever. Her small form shakes and Lyme dutifully collects her younger sibling in a hug to calm her nerves. "Come home, please." When she looks up, her eyes hold fractured fragility. The way repaired glass never quite looks right after you glue it together. A breath draws from between her lips before Lyme can respond, she can hear the shakiness in her breath. "Get off it," Lykos finger jabs the youngest girl in the ribs. "She'll be home in no time, in the victor's village with running water."

Again, dutifully Lyme hushes and nods a farewell to her brothers who take their leave. The girl remains tied at her waist, but offers her a sincere, genuine smile. "For you," there is a necklace presented to her, silver and decorated with wings along a chain. The item is plucked from the palm of her sister's hand and held tightly in her own fist now. "Y'know, your heart is a muscle the size of your fist…" A feral smile appears upon Lyme's mouth after her words.

Those few minutes she is allotted to catch her breath are up and soon she is escorted out of the room and toward the car, she catches a final glimpse of what is somewhat familiar to her, a wave goodbye from some people she may have considered friends had she been warmer. The cameras have caught her attention, curiously she peers into them, giving the Capitol audience a show later tonight when the feed is flashed onto screens in every home there, and all over districts; announcing to their world what other youths their children will be up against. Including the stoic young Lyme from two who can only offer a small smile that has rooted itself upon her features with violent intention.


End file.
